


Half of my brain (is killing me)

by rerumfragmenta



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Chronic Illness, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Sick Fic, eating problems, id est Cluster Headache
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 08:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rerumfragmenta/pseuds/rerumfragmenta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three weeks after the last MRI scan the only thing Q can eat without rushing to the bathroom right<br/>away is toast.</p>
<p>(or, Q gets diagnosed with Cluster Headache and Bond does the best he can)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half of my brain (is killing me)

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-read and corrected by the lovely and perfect Eryn, to whom I own a lot. You're amazing, girl.  
> This fic was written as a stress-relief, you know how it goes... you're stressed and you let your misery fall upon fictional characters (in this case, Q) to feel a bit better.  
> Even though I researched as much as I could on the subject, there may be medical inaccuracies anyway.

  


Q opens his eyes and he's confused.

He has been standing at his work station as always, checking on 004 in Bolivia, and now all he can  
feel is the pain behind his skull and all he can see is Bond's ice blue eyes far too close.

He doesn't even notice the man is speaking.

“Can you hear me, Q? Can you stand?”

Q raises a hand to let him know he understood, and shakes his head to answer the second  
question. Sudden pain rises from the back of his eyes and he has to screw them shut. Meanwhile,  
Bond is asking quietly for some water.

“What's wrong, Q?” he whispers.  
 _'I don't know, James'_ Q thinks, unable to speak yet. He fists the lapels of the agent’s suit and hides  
his face in the crook of his shoulder

_'I don't know'_

**-**

Q comes out of the bathroom with a white box in which sits the container for the exam, filled with  
his urine. He holds it with just two fingers, arm extended as far as it’ll go, and with an expression  
between a mild irritation and pure disgust.

Bond, who was going to check on him if he took any longer, almost chokes on the slice of toast he  
was eating.

Q laughs and pats his back. When Bond is sure he's not dying, he laughs too.

The younger man puts the box in a small white paper bag and wanders into the kitchen to wash his  
hands once again.  
Bond comes up behind him and kisses the top of his head.

“Are you sure you don't want me to come along?” he asks.  
“It's just a blood exam,” Q replies. “I'll be back home before you even realize I'm out the door.”  
A corner of Bond's lips goes up in something too quick to be called a smile.  
He hands Q another paper bag, bigger and brown. “Eat this once you're done,” he says.

Q nods, puts on his oversized coat - the bag goes into one of the pockets - and gives Bond a light  
pec on the lips.  
“I will,” he says before he picks up the urine sample and walks out the door.

**-**

_Negative._

_Negative._

Blood and urine tests come back clean. Apparently, Q is sound as a bell.

Except from the fact that Bond is holding him while he cries as pain stabs his brain.  
He has stopped whispering sweet, soothing sounds a while ago.  
Now, he's simply waiting until the headache will fade. It always does.  
But in the beginning it passed in less than a quarter and these days it lasts around half an hour  
already.

“James, James, James ...” Q calls his name over and over, his jaw tight and his voice tired.  
“Sssh” Bond whispers, and he doesn't know who's holding onto whom anymore.

**-**

There's a mission in China with 009 held captive so Q skips the MRI scan.  
There's someone trying to get through the new firewalls Q had set up after Silva so he skips the  
new appointment too.  
Then there's 006 in Kazakhstan and Alec calls Bond in the middle of the night to apologise.  
Bond shakes his head and tells him that _it's ok, I'm sure it's nothing terrible. Just horrible  
headaches._

Q has from 6 to 12 episode every week now and Bond isn't always there.  
They have a futon in Q's office as well as painkillers stacked in his drawer. They never work much.  
In the end they always call Bond - mostly because Q keeps asking for him and won’t calm down  
otherwise - and no matter if it’s over the phone or in person he tries his best to help Q.

Even if he doesn't exactly know what to do.

**-**

When he finally makes it to the MRI after two weeks of postponing it, the scan looks perfectly  
normal and Q insists on a lumbar puncture more because the doctor had mentioned meningitis  
once, than because he thinks it’s really necessary.

There’s only one explanation now. Cluster headache. A very bitchy one apparently.

Q sighs when he gives Bond the news. He squeezes his hands in a small gesture of comfort, not  
daring to risk more in the heart of MI6.

**-**

Bond is on a short mission in Chile, not even a month after the first blood exam when he's  
suddenly left alone in the middle of nowhere, and all he can hear in the earpiece is Q retching and  
people shouting and he doesn't realize he's started screaming for someone to explain _what the hell  
is going on_ until the bad guys find him and shot him.

He comes out with only a gash on his left arm, and by the time he's taken down the thugs, R had  
already taken Q's place.  
“What happened?!” he hisses.  
“Q threw up his lunch” R answers, voice calm. Bond swears loudly in return.

Being unable to stomach food is not a normal symptom of cluster headaches so once he’s back  
from Chile, he asks for a month of sick leave.

M gives him two.

**-**

Bond keeps Q's hair out of the way as he throws up into the toilet where they’ve relocated halfway  
through dinner. He waits nervously until the retching subsides before taking a damp cloth and  
cleaning his mouth. Q’s like dead weight in his arms, breathing slowly and just letting Bond do as  
he pleases. The agent knows Q is grateful for all the help he can get, so he meticulously scrubs his  
face. When he feels Q’s head look against his shoulder once he’s done, Bond can’t help holding  
on a little tighter.

He half-carries Q back to their bedroom and puts him into bed. Carefully he tugs him in and lightly  
brushes his hands over his cheeks.  
Once he's sure Q's sleeping, he texts R.  
And Tanner, just to be sure.

_Q won't be coming to work tomorrow. Or the day after. -007_

**-**

Q changes his diet - not that he had some kind of eating habits before.

Where formerly he lived on take-away he’s now skipping cheese and peanuts and red wine.  
There’s also no more cured or smoked meat or fish on his plate. It isn’t difficult to be more careful,  
the only thing Q mourns is to give up chocolate.

“No more nutella” Q murmured, as they went through the list of foods high in tyramines – the amino  
acid Q had to avoid – from one of the many doctors they had consulted. Well, the only one who  
survived Bond's hard stares.

Bond follows Q's diet too without much trouble. Every once and again he indulges in a glass of red  
wine.  
But when Q insists he should eat whatever, however and whenever he likes, Bond insists he will  
once Q can eat a full meal without rushing to the bathroom halfway through it.

**-**

“Q...”

Bond is breathless as Q sobs into his chest, dinner once again forgotten on the table. Q’s plate  
lays shattered on the floor, right next to a puddle of vomit.  
No matter how much Q wants to eat, his body throws it up right away.

“Q, what do we do” he asks, cradling the shaking frame in his arms, stroking his lover’s back in  
soothing circles.  
Q just sobs harder. “I don't know,” he mutters, broken. “I have no idea.”

They re-do the blood tests. They're clear.  
They re-do the MRI scan, and that's fine too.  
They spend a whole week in and out hospitals and private clinics performing every test the doctors  
can think of.

“It's just cluster headache” Q tells Bond firmly.

They're in bed, facing each other, entangled in a mess of limbs. It’s the only way they can both  
sleep quietly. Bond’s too nervous to sleep if he’s not holding onto Q, making sure he’s there and  
fine. And Q just keeps trashing and turning without Bond’s steadying presence right on top of him.

“Just a bad headache” he repeats. He’s said it a few times tonight and by now he sounds more like  
he’s reminding himself than reassuring Bond. The agent can feel Q hug him a little tight but he can  
also feel the bony fingers grabbing his night shirt. If he brushes his hands up and down Q's spine  
he can count the knots and so he can do with the ribs.

His lover his always been slim, but this is more than slim and Bond tightens his embrace in return.

**-**

Three weeks after the last MRI scan the only thing Q can eat without rushing to the bathroom right  
away is toast.  
He's weak and tired. He hasn't gone to work in weeks now and R has taken up the habit of texting  
him in regular intervals.  
Even if it's just a _'No relevant updates, sir.'_

Bond doesn't text Eve anymore, not after she accused him of _martyrizing himself._  
He texts Tanner instead. Mostly to give an update on Q’s condition, but also because he would go  
crazy if he didn’t have someone to share his worries with.

_He couldn't lift his cup this morning and almost fainted halfway back to the bedroom._  
He ate half an apple for lunch.  
And for dinner. 

_He tried to drink orange juice. Almost spilled the whole bottle over when he ran off to the toilet.  
He refused to leave the toilet side for the rest of the day._

_He's put some jam on the toast and ate it just fine.  
He couldn't eat a third slice though._

_He's finally asleep. I can't feel my right arm anymore._  
Texting with my left hand is hard.  
It's ok, though. 

_He's woken up screaming and the headache kicked in immediately.  
He cried into the last clean shirt I had._

_He..._

_He..._

_He..._

_He..._

_He..._

_He..._

Sometimes Tanner text back. It’s usually some variation of _'I'm so sorry'._

**-**

“You don't have to stay!” Q yells at Bond. He's just finished retching for the second time of the day  
and it’s not even eleven a.m.  
Bond feels his heart skip a bit, scared of what will come next.

Q leaps at him, fists tight and tears running down his cheeks. He beats Bond's chest with as much  
strength as he can gather.  
It’s not much and Bond takes it all. It's hurting him more to see Q like this anyway.

“I vowed” he murmurs, holding Q close against his will. He can feel the other's nails dig into the  
skin of his arms, probably scratching him. Q seems to be intent on lashing out, but Bond just hold  
on tightly.  
“In sickness and health, remember?” he murmurs against his partner’s hair and his voice cracks at the last  
word.  
Q goes limp in his arms, still sobbing, clutching at Bond now rather than trying to hurt him.  
They're running on a thin wire, and none of them know how long it will hold.

**-**

By now they have tried different medications, starting with lidocaine and progressively going  
stronger. But Q is wary of the effects of long-term use, so they drop them as soon as it’s obvious  
they aren’t working.

Q flat out refuses to take any kind of hallucinogens, even though they work on almost anyone  
affected by cluster headache.  
“I have no intention of losing controll of my mind and body,” he told Bond he tried to argue the  
point. “The headaches do a terrific work of it already.”

So in the end they settle for oxygen therapy. Q keeps an oxygen tank where his nightstand used to  
be, and as soon as he felt a new episode begin, he puts on the mask and lies down. It takes only  
15 – 20 minutes until he can get back to do whatever he was doing before.  
Bond is as relieved as Q that they’ve finally found a therapy that worked.

“I could go back to work,” Q murmurs after his fifth day on oxygen. “I'll just need to keep an oxygen  
tank nearby at all times.”  
Bond hums, nuzzling closer. “You need to gain some weight first” he says, hating himself a bit for  
ruining that little moment of happiness Q had found, even if he was being reasonable. “And you  
still throw up half of your meals.”  
Q nods, the smile having faded a bit.

**-**

Bond stays in the bathroom when Q showers now. At first he’d stayed around because Q feared  
he would faint and hurt himself. (or does Bond fear Q would faint and hurt himself again?)  
Then, because Q had been too weak to shower alone.  
Now, out of inertia.

When Q steps out of the shower he stumbles, and Bond puts an arm around his waist to steady  
him.  
A few days ago he had fallen right into Bond’s arms.  
Bond had hugged him and realized he could touch his own biceps.  
A moment later he had been the one retching into the toilet for once, with a naked and bony  
Quartermaster trying to calm him down.

**-**

Bond drags his feet on the way from the bathroom to the kitchen, passing by the living room slowly.  
Q is sitting on the couch, staring at the balcony window. He just came out of an attack the oxygen  
therapy hadn't be able to abort.  
His eyes are red and puffy, with dark bags under them. Bond gently passes his hand through Q’s  
hair as he passes him by.

Q doesn't speak much after those few attacks he can't abort. Bond doesn't mind the silence since  
Q can always nod or shake his head to communicate. He can also point at things he wants and,  
even though it might not be ideal, it works fine.  
Unfortunately if Q is silent and there's something going on in his head, there's no way Bond for  
know, or help.

“I can understand if something displeases you,” he had said once, over a frugal dinner “But I can't  
read your mind.”  
Q had just looked at him, blinked a couple of times and nodded.

**-**

M calls Bond into his office on a day at the end of the second month of his leave. Bond had come  
back to MI6 to bring Q-branch some papers Q had worked on at home.  
“I've recived a mail from Q,” he says. “He’s asking to come back to work on Monday.”  
Bond sighed. Of course Q hasn't told him about it.  
M waits, hands crossed on his desk, waiting for Bond to speak.

“He still throws his meals up occasionally,” Bond says, even though he knows it isn’t true. Not  
completely at least. Since Q has started oxygen therapy, the nausea has almost disappeared - the  
last time Q threw up was some pineapple the week prior.  
“He's still underweight,” he adds, which is also true, but Q has gained some weight back already.  
His elbows still dig into Bond's sides when they nap on top of the covers, Bond’s fingers still bruise  
the skin of Q’s wrist when he holds it at night, and Bond can still count Q’s ribs. But it’s getting  
better every day.

He doesn't tell M that Q shouldn't get back to work, even though he thinks so. If Q wants to try,  
there is nothing Bond can do or say to make the young man change idea.  
He tells M that, even though Q needn't to be taken care of per se, he needed to be kept an eye on.

**-**

Bond has lost weight too. He didn't notice before, but he notices now. He keeps pulling up a pair of  
jeans that used to fit just fine without a belt. He doesn't know what's more annoying, having to use  
a belt now or understanding it meant he didn't take much care of himself.

He sighs, looking at Q on the bed. The other is breathing into the oxygen mask, hands resting  
calmly over his solar plexus.

Q will get back to work in a couple of days, starting with just a normal shift from 9 to 5.  
Bond will come with him of course. During these months, they have always been in the same  
room, with very few exceptions.  
Bond has never left Q’s side, and he won't start now. Especially when Q will just keep pushing  
himself trying to catch up at work.

“Hey” the agent says, laying next to Q. The younger waves a hand to him, a small smile spreading  
on his lips behind the mask.  
“How do you feel about going back to work?” he asks, shifting closer to rest his head on Q's bony  
shoulder. The other gives his thumbs up.  
“I'm a bit nervous” Bond confesses. He usually doesn't voice his thoughts. Q understands him  
perfectly well without talking and most of the times he doesn’t want strangers to know about his  
feelings. This time, though, he feels like he should tell Q, not only to voice his unease but also to  
explain himself.  
“I don't want people to give you pitying looks. I don't want them to assume you'll need help for  
everything,” he says, entwining the fingers of his left hand with Q's right ones. “Or that you could  
faint on them or have an episode at any given moment”

“You worry too much” Q mutters, stopping the oxygen flow and pulling back the mask. He turns to  
hug Bond, burying his face into the crook of his lover’s shoulder.  
“They'll be nervous, they'll talk with each other behind our backs,” he says, brushing his hands up  
and down Bond’s spine. “They won’t look at me. They will be giving you pitying looks and say  
stupid things like 'he was a great agent, what a waste' or 'we can't keep someone who could drop  
on us during a delicate mission' and they will generally be a pain in the ass.”

Bond opens his mouth, but before he can say anything he is interrupted by a bony finger tapping  
against his nose – a typical Q gesture that always amuses him.  
“But we don't give a flying fuck about them,” Q concluded, and from his tone Bond understood he  
wouldn't hear another word about the topic.

**-**

Bond is making some 'headache-triggers free breakfast' – as they had come to call it - wearing  
only a worn T-shirt and bright yellow boxer briefs Q got him as a joke. He fills two mugs with boiling  
water, tea bags already inside. He hears Q's footsteps and turns in time to see him appear in the  
doorframe and lean against it.  
He's wearing only his pyjamas bottoms – the red checked ones Bond loves – and he's got an  
impressive head of bed-hair.

“I, Ethan Wide” he slurs, sleepily “take you, James Bond, to be my husband - and general pain in the  
ass - to have and to hold from this day forward, for better and definitely for worse, for richer, for  
poorer” he smiles, a faint blush spreading on his cheeks “in _sickness_ and in  
 _health..._ to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part”

Bond just gapes at him, breakfast forgotten.

Suddently, it's like they aren't in their kitchen anymore, but in a small office with horrible wallpaper.  
He isn't wearing ridiculous underwear any longer but one of his best suits – light grey, white shirt  
underneath and a dark red tie. He isn't looking at Q in his pyjama bottoms, but in a beautiful dark  
grey suit, with a black shirt and a gold tie.  
(Tapping his foot impatiently, on their right, Alec is trying his best not to start giggling. Even if right  
now he should somewhere in Burundi.)  
And three years later, the ring on his finger is just the same one he wore for the first time that day.

“I –” Bond started, blinking “I forgot”

Q lets out a little chuckle, walking up to the agent who keeps murmuring “Oh shit, I forgot”  
The agent pulls Q into a warm hug, having to bite his lips not to break into hysterical laughter.

“Happy anniversary, Mr Wide” Q murmurs.  
“Shut up, Mr Bond” Bond answers.


End file.
